


The Experiment: part IX

by Ttime42



Series: Experiment [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dessert & Sweets, Drugs, Family, Fluff, Gen, Illegal Activities, John Makes Questionable Life Choices, Mother-Son Relationship, Plants, Police, Spanking, Surprises, Sweet, questionable legality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft don't think things through. Even though John attempts to be the voice of reason, all three men come to regret their decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drugs Bust

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is: Part 9! To my new readers, welcome to this series :) I suggest you start with part I, though tbh it's probably not totally necessary. To my continuing readers, hello again! I hope you continue to enjoy the shenanigans and inevitable comeuppance ;)

John Watson had just sat down at the desk and opened up his laptop one rainy Wednesday morning before his work shift when he was interrupted by a sharp _knock-knock!_ on the door downstairs. He frowned and stood up, heading down to see who it was. Sherlock was out collecting rainwater for some experiment and John hoped it wasn't a client who'd slogged through the rain only to find the detective not at home.

He opened the door, surprised to see Greg and Sally on the other side, each armed with an umbrella.

"Hey, John." Lestrade said, giving him a tight smile. "Can we come in?"

"You don't need to ask." Sally said to him. She looked up at John. "We're here for a drugs bust."

"Oh." John stepped back, letting the damp officers inside. "Okay. Any reason…?"

"Knowing Sherlock, there's plenty of reasons. Got a tip." She said. She didn't offer any more information about said tip and John shrugged. "Okay. You can leave the umbrellas down here if you want." They left the wet fabric bunched on the rubber mat Mrs. Hudson had put out by the door and followed John upstairs. "Coffee?" He offered.

Greg's eyes lit up. "Sure, I'll have one."

John poured Greg a mug as Sally opened one of their cabinets.

"Did you see the game last night?" Greg asked, accepting the mug from John with thanks.

"Yeah, what a play in the second half!"

None of this was new. Every once and a while Lestrade and an officer (usually Sally) would pop by the flat on grounds of a 'bust'. Sally would do a half hearted search of the cabinets while Greg and John chatted about football. Coffee and the occasional biscuit would be consumed and then the officers would wish B's occupant's well and leave.

"I really don't think he's been using." John told Sally as she crouched and stared at a jar of some sort of tissue under the sink.

"Gregson's on a rampage at the office." Lestrade said, sipping his mug. "Some paperwork snafu. I'm not even sure what happened but we had to get out of there. He was yelling at everybody. Almost made the intern cry. We needed an official excuse to escape."

"Ah." John nodded. "So if anyone asks, you're on a bust."

"Yep."

"Is his nibs in?" Sally asked. She left the tissue alone and stood up.

"No." John said. "He went out about an hour ago."

Greg and John talked about the game some more while Sally wandered around the sitting room. They found nothing (not that they were looking) and then they left twenty minutes later. John put Greg's mug in the sink and poured himself a fresh one. He went back to his laptop, remembering that he had been about to check his email when the officers came calling.

He sipped his coffee and logged in to his account. There was a new message in his inbox from Mrs. Hudson. He clicked.

 

 **From:** Mrs. Hudson  <Hudders37@yahoo.com>

 **To:** John Watson  <JWatson@gmail.com>, Sherlock Holmes <WSSHolmes@gmail.com>

 **Subject:** Rules of 221

Hello boys,

I thought a list of rules would be helpful so that, should you choose to obey them, you will both reduce the chances of finding yourselves and particularly your bums in any kind of precarious position.

_ Rules of 221 _

_No experimenting on each other when you're ill. (Honestly Sherlock)_

_No locking each other in government labs and playing tricks‒even if it's 'for science', dear._

_No deliberately putting yourselves in danger (I don’t need more grey hair, boys!)_

_NO LIVE/DISABLED/DISASSEMBLED/DEAD BOMBS OF ANY KIND._

_Blood or/and organs MUST be stored at all times in a secure container._

_No acid. None. (and no shooting paint at security cameras, John!)_

_And nothing that will hurt yourselves or each other. Or me, come to think of it. Or our neighbours. Or anyone!_

_Mrs. Hudson reserves the right to change or amend these rules at any time. I_ mean _it._

_I hope this is clear, dears. Any questions, just ask. Ta!_

_xoxo Mrs. H  
_

 

John grinned around his coffee mug and typed back a reply.

_Yes, Mrs. Hudson. We'll make note of these._

_‒John_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes was reclined on the sofa later that same evening, long fingers steepled under his chin, lost in his mind palace. He was organizing data into one of the bedrooms in the north wing of his palace. He was currently working a small, yet vaguely interesting case that had come through his website involving tedious malpractice claims and stolen antiques. He'd told his homeless network to keep an eye out for who he thought was the suspect. That case had taken most of the day and he imagined he would have an answer for the distraught victim of theft within the next seventy-two hours. The rainwater experiment would have to wait.

Scotland Yard was quiet as a grave. He hadn't heard anything useful from Lestrade in weeks.

The door downstairs flew open and slammed the wall and Sherlock wondered if John was angry or if the breeze had yanked the door from his grasp. The rain pattered the window but it wasn't very blustery out. The footfalls stomping up the steps confirmed the former.

John pushed into the room with a groan and kicked the door closed. Sherlock listened as he slid out of his damp black coat and hung it up beside the Belstaff. Leather thumped on the floor as he tugged off his shoes and tossed them aside, and then down the creaking hall to the loo he went. He padded back into the kitchen a moment later and Sherlock listened to the faint rubbery squeak as the fridge door opened and then the clatter of dishes on the countertop. The microwave door opened and snapped shut and the dull hum of the machine whirred in the air.

"Sherlock." John called.

Sherlock's ears twitched. Yes, John was annoyed. There was a definite twinge of stress in his tone.

"Yes?" He murmured.

"What are these?"

Sherlock swung up to his feet and strolled into the kitchen. John was hunkered over a terrarium by the window, filled to the brim with gnarled green and brown vines.

"They're plants, John."

"I gathered that, but what _are_ they?" He squinted through the glass, coated with big fat drops of humidity.

"It's just a flowering vine."

John spared him a glare. "Nothing is 'just' anything with you, and there's no flowers."

"Well not _yet."_ Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In approximately ten to fifteen days there will be blossoms."

John stood up and turned to his flat mate, his arms crossed. "What's the catch?"

"No catch." His voice was a tad higher and far too innocent. John had heard that tone before. That was his 'I'm screamingly guilty but I want you to think I'm a perfect angel' tone.

"Sherlock." He snapped out. "What are these things?No bullshit."

Sherlock sighed and looked up from the microscope. " _Banisteriopsis caapi._ Also called Ayahuasca. They are for Mycroft."

" _Mycroft?_ He's taking up horticulture or what?"

"Of course not. It's a Classified project and I'm afraid I can't tell you more."

"Classified?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Highly." Sherlock sniffed. "I don't know much about it myself."

He went silent then and the microwave beeped.

"I don't believe you." John said, "but I don't care right now because I had a shite day and I want dinner. As long as those damn things," he pointed at the vines, "don't come alive in the night and strangle me to death, I don't care."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That would be highly unlikely."

"Good." With that, John grabbed his pasta and brought it to the sitting room, settling on the sofa and pulling his laptop onto his knees. In a fit of wild curiosity, he Googled ' _Banisteriopsis caapi'_ and nearly choked on his linguine.

"Sherlock!" He bellowed.

"Yes?" His bored voice drifted out of the kitchen.

"Those bleeding vines are illegal to own in the UK!"

"Oh joy. You've managed Google."

"Get them out of the flat! Now."

"They're not mine! Entirely…."

John shoved the computer onto the table and got up, stomping into the kitchen.

"You'd better start making sense." He snarled. Sherlock glanced at his clenched fists and planted feet, his tight shoulders and thin mouth.

"The plants are for Mycroft." Sherlock said. "Their legality is…questionable."

"Why? It's either legal or not, right?"

The detective paused, thinking of the best way to explain to John. As he wasn't a scientist, Sherlock would need to dumb it down. "The plants themselves are perfectly safe, however, they do contain DMT."

"What's that." John growled.

"It's a chemical substance that, if ingested, substantially increases a human's serotonin levels. Abnormally high serotonin levels can cause someone to hallucinate, vomit, have diarrhea and experience hot and cold flashes."

"Lovely." John opened and closed his fist.

"Now normally," Sherlock pressed on, "if we were to consume those leaves just as they are in that terrarium, our stomach acid would break down the DMT and our serotonin levels stay the same. No vomit, no foul. The plant in the form you see there is perfectly legal. But, if one were to combine _Banisteriopsis caapi_ components with various types of Peruvian tree bark in a specially prepared beverage and we were to imbibe that beverage, the bark _would_ prevent the stomach from breaking down the DMT and as a result, someone drinking the liquid would experience those side effects I just listed." He went quiet.

John stared at him. "So those vines are legal, but the hallucinogenic liquid that can be created from them is illegal."

"In crude, basic terms, yes."

John sighed and pinched the ridge of his nose.

"It's the potential that's illegal, John. I foresee no problems." Sherlock said. "Once the buds get stronger and begin to blossom, Mycroft assured me he would remove the plant from our premises."

"Fine. Ten days, and that thing is gone. I don't want Amazonian vines creeping over the kitchen and I don't want to come home to you hallucinating."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock huffed.

"Sherlock, seriously, promise me you're not going to try and drink those things."

"I'm not. I prefer cocaine, you know that." He glanced up at his flatmate's highly unamused expression. "I'm not doing that either."

"Good." John opened and closed his fist. "Why are you helping your brother anyway?" He asked, wandering back to the sofa.

"Bored." He groused.

John got the impression there was more to it than boredom, but he left it alone. There was a bowl of linguine in the other room calling his name.


	2. Don't Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vines are a bit not good.

The next afternoon, Mycroft Holmes finished up a few mundane meetings at work and strolled out into the sunshine where he had a car waiting. He had some time to kill before he was due at the Diogenes Club, so he directed his driver to Baker Street. He stepped out of the car, said thank you, and looked up at the window. The curtain fell back into place and he let himself inside and went up the steps to the flat above. John was on the edge of the sofa, watching a rugby game. Sherlock was perched at his laptop at the desk, ignoring the game completely.

"Hey, Mycroft." John said, glancing up. "Do you have any idea what your brother is growing in this flat?"

"Of course he does." Sherlock muttered.

"Do you know that those plants are illegal?" John said, trying to not sound too patronizing.

"Their legality is…grey." Mycroft said. "Don't worry about it."

Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen. "Why did you drop by, brother?"

"To check the progress, of course." Mycroft turned to him.

"The progress of those druggie flowers!?" John said testily.

In response, Sherlock closed the pocket doors, leaving the two of them in the kitchen and John very much out.

"Oh fine, fine." He glared at the green glass and muttered at himself. "I'm apparently not allowed to know what's going on under my own roof now, excellent. Perfect. You two both know what's going on, but me? No, why tell John?"

He watched a few seconds of the game, then glanced back at the doors. He couldn't hear anything, which was odd in itself. Sherlock and Mycroft usually ended up shouting or at least arguing after a mere few minutes of conversation. Sherlock had said those plants were Classified, but if they were so secret, why were they being stored in their flat and not, say, a government lab? John wondered then, if this project was so secretive maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe lives depended on whatever flowers these vines would produce. Maybe they were part of some kind of Baskerville nonsense. Sentient killer plants. He doubted it, but he wasn't about to ask. The less he knew of Mycroft's business, the better.

 

* * *

 

John was on his way home from work a couple days later, only a street away from the flat. His mobile sounded. A text from Sherlock.

_Drugs bust. They'll be there in 10 min. Get the plants out of our flat! Hide them! ‒SH_

John read and reread the message, disbelief scattered across his face. He typed out a response.

_They're legal though, right?! Did you lie to me? Why hide them? ‒JW_

_The police are inept. Donovan might confiscate just to spite me. Please John! ‒SH_

_They'd be better off out of our flat anyway! ‒JW_

_JOHN. You MUST do this! ‒SH_

_Alright, alright. I'm nearly home ‒JW_

John sighed, wondering how yet again he'd gotten roped into this sort of business. He slipped his phone into his pocket and turned off Marylebone onto Baker Street. He trotted up to the black door and let himself inside and hurried up the steps, dropping his bag to the side as he went into the kitchen. Move the plants. Right. He stared at the boxy terrarium filled with delicate bright green buds. It was tempting to just chuck it out the window, but if Mycroft found out then he'd probably become a Baskerville experiment himself.

He picked up the terrarium and looked around. Where to hide them? They couldn't be in the flat, obviously. Lestrade and Donovan likely wouldn't go upstairs to his room, but Sherlock had asked him to take them out of the flat. He went downstairs and jiggled C's door handle. Locked. He rolled his eyes and glanced frantically around. They would be here any moment and even though it was just Greg, he was a good enough officer that he wouldn't overlook questionably legal substances on the grounds of friendship. John didn't want to create more work for the patient officer. He looked at Mrs. Hudson's door and froze in thought. She wouldn't mind plant sitting for a few minutes, right? He shifted the glass case to one arm and knocked.

No response.

_Knock knock._ "Mrs. Hudson?" He called.

Nothing. She was probably at the shops. Damn. Okay, where else? Outside out back? The fastest way to the alley was through her locked door and he rolled his eyes. He didn't have time to run out the front door and run all the way around Baker Street to the alley out back! Stupid plants! He twisted the knob, hopeful, and to his surprise the door swung open. Oh. That had been easy. He rolled his eyes at himself‒ _breaking into your landlady's flat? Nice, Watson_ ‒and set the terrarium on the floor, just inside the door of the dark space. Fine. There. They were out of the flat and he still had a few minutes before the cops arrived. He straightened up and closed the door behind, then jogged upstairs two at a time and slammed the door closed. He leaned back on it and exhaled in relief. That had been easy.

Seconds later a big fist pounded on the door downstairs. John frowned. Greg usually used the bell. He went down again, yelling, "just a moment!" He'd managed to catch most of last night's football game, but he'd come home from work too late to see the start. Greg could fill him in.

John opened the door. "Hey, Gre‒"

It wasn't Lestrade. Or Donovan. Or Anderson.

DI Dimmock and Chief Gregson stood on the threshold, looking far less than pleased.

 

* * *

 

"H-hello." John amended. "Chief Gregson." He nodded. "DI Dimmock. How can I help you?"

"We got word that there could be some illegal substances in this flat." Dimmock said. He held up a search warrant and Gregson pushed past him and went up the steps.

"Hey!" John bristled at the push. "You can't just barge in here!"

"Yes we can." Dimmock handed him the page and followed his boss. John glanced over the warrant and grabbed his phone to text.

_They're here. It's not Lestrade and Donovan. It's Dimmock and the Chief. What else is in this flat?! ‒JW_

He sent it off and put the phone in his pocket, jogging up the stairs again. Gregson was frowning at the skull. "Real, is it?"

"Uh, I'm not sure." John lied. The officers opened drawers and asked John casual questions about Sherlock's habits and if they could be expecting him anytime soon. John stood by the sofa, nervous. He had nothing to hide, but he'd just expected Greg and Sally. These officers looked like they meant real business.

"I don't know where he is." John said. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

_I need to talk to one of you. Now. ‒JW_

Then another to Sherlock.

_Answer me or get your bum back to the flat ASAP! ‒JW_

A few more minutes ticked by and neither brother wrote back. Dimmock was upstairs and Gregson was in the kitchen. John fidgeted. He had no idea if Sherlock had anything contraband in jars or boxes or anything in his bedroom.

"Are these ears!?" Gregson sounded disgusted.

"Uh," John stood up and went to the doorway, glancing at the plastic container of ears Gregson held. "They sure look like it." He said weakly.

"Do you have a permit for these?"

"They're not mine."

Gregson wasn't buying it.

"I don't know where he filed the permit." John glanced into the sitting room, at the impressive mess of piles of papers and notebooks stacked on the floor and between the chairs in front of the fireplace. He highly doubted there was a permit buried anywhere in the flat. "I'll ask." John turned away from the door and pulled out his phone again.

_Call me. Or come home for the love of God. ‒JW_

Neither man had responded to his texts yet and John bit back a swear word. Sherlock would send a thousand texts just to tell him he was bored, but heaven forbid John need to get a hold of him for a real reason even one bloody time.

Dimmock came down from upstairs. "Everything's clear upstairs, sir. Shall I check downstairs?"

"Yeah." Gregson glanced around the kitchen, looking disgusted. "Go on."

"Downstairs?" John bleated. Dimmock disappeared down the stairwell. "Our whole flat is right here." He gestured around the space.

Gregson came up to John and looked down his nose at him. "The warrant is for the whole building." He followed the other officer and John clenched his fists. He grabbed his phone again and slammed out a text to both brothers.

_They're going to find the plants. Are there papers, permits, anything? ‒JW_

He put his phone away and listened. Mrs. Hudson's door opened and he rubbed his hand over his forehead. There was nothing he could do. He shrugged. Fine. It would have to be fine. If they found the damned plants and took them away, that wasn't his problem. It was stupid of the Holmes' to even store them here given how frequently the place was busted for drugs. He'd done as asked. He'd removed the vines from the flat and that was that.

He wandered downstairs and blanched at Dimmock carrying the terrarium out the front door. "Where are you taking those?" He called from the third step.

"The station."

"Why?"

Dimmock snorted. "Are you kidding? These plants are illegal in Britain!"

"Oh?" John tried to sound surprised.

"I don't know what your landlady is up to, but these are bad news." He walked out the door with them and John stood, defeated, on the steps. Gregson strode out of the flat, talking on his mobile.

"We need a drug team at 221 Baker Street," he was saying, "Oh, and have Elizabeth Hudson arrested." He strode out the front door and John's eyes bugged out as they closed it behind. What?! They were arresting Mrs. Hudson!? The idea that the place would soon be swarming with police spurred him into action. He ran into her dark flat and grabbed her 'herbal soothers' from the cabinet. He had no idea if they were legal or not, but he didn't want to risk it. He jogged back up the stairs and flung the cardboard box into Sherlock's wardrobe. There. They'd already searched there, so that should be safe. He took a deep breath. He had no idea how bad this was. They were arresting Mrs. Hudson, so the vines must be far worse than Sherlock had said. No surprise there. When the coppers found out the plants actually belonged to B, would he get arrested? Would Sherlock? Would Mycroft?! He texted his moron of a flat mate again.

_Welp. Long story short, the vines are gone and there's a warrant out for Mrs. Hudson's arrest. ‒JW_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers love comments and kudos! Thank you to my commenters and kudos-ers.


	3. Misunderstandings and Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson lets the boys know just how displeased she is.

Greg Lestrade was walking out of the holding cell area, having just lugged a drunk bloke in off the street who was being a nuisance to passers-by. He'd been too pissed to talk, so Greg thought it best to let him sleep it off in the cells. He happened to glance up and see a familiar older woman occupying one of the cells, sitting stiffly on the edge of the thin cot. He froze. She wasn't just familiar, she was‒

"‒Mrs. Hudson?" He asked.

She looked at him through the slot in the door, appearing to be suppressing a great deal of anger. "Hello Officer Lestrade."

"What are you doing in there?" He asked, stupefied.

"I was arrested by DI Dimmock."

"For what?" He fumbled his keys and opened the cell door. Her ankles were neatly crossed and a shopping bag was beside her containing a loaf of bread, some blueberries and flour, and a couple of wooden mixing spoons. He stepped inside and offered to help her up. She waved him away and stood, gathering her bag.

"Come on out here to my desk. That cell is no place for you."

"Thank you, Gregory." Her words were clipped and short as she followed him out of the cell area and towards the warmer bustle of the office.

"Why did Dimmock bring you in?"

"Because 'something suspicious' was found in my building, in my flat specifically!"

"Yeah," He grunted, " I bet it has to do with a tall lanky git who likes to solve crimes."

"My thoughts precisely." She said. He sat her down at his desk in his comfy chair and gave her a cup of tea. Not the cheap crap in the break room, but his own blend he kept in his desk.

"Bless you, dear." She accepted the thick paper cup.

"Ta. What happened?" He asked, sitting across from her in the visitor's chairs.

"I was just leaving the shops and two officers approached. They were very polite young women, but they explained that illegal substances had been found in my flat and they needed to bring me in. They didn't say what 'substances' were found. It was humiliating. People were staring! Can you imagine‒me in a police car! That hasn't happened in decades!

She sipped her tea and Greg tried his damndest not to laugh. Something had clearly gone wrong at Baker Street and no doubt Sherlock was behind it. If Greg hadn't been called out to pick up the drunk, he'd have gone to do the bust himself. He hadn't seen John in a while and it had been a hell of a game last night.

"I'll fix your record." He said. "I'll get this removed." He picked up his phone and pushed a couple buttons. Mrs. Hudson listened as he called off the drug team en route to 221 to search the building, promising that it was a misunderstanding. He hung up. "I'll talk to Dimmock and take you home. Sit tight."

"Really? That would be lovely, dear. Thank you ever so much."

"Sure. It was a misunderstanding, unless you do have substances that we should be aware of…?" He eyed her suspiciously, trying to be funny, and Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Of course not, love." She smiled sweetly. He doesn't need to know about the soothers...

He left to speak with Dimmock and she finished her tea in peace. Greg came back in the room. "It'll be all sorted. You can go."

She placed the empty cup in the bin and stood, gathering her bag. He opened the door and held it for her, allowing her to go first. "You might want to keep that cell open, however, Officer." She said as she strode out into the corridor. "Because I'm going to absolutely murder my tenants."

 

* * *

 

"John?" Sherlock opened the door in the foyer. Mrs. Hudson's flat was dark and closed up and he jogged up the stairs and pushed open the door. "Jo‒ "

"‒Where the bloody hell have you been?!" John rounded on him the moment he stepped through the door. "I texted you‒I called you a dozen times! Those damned vines got confiscated!"

"John." Sherlock held up a gloved hand and vaguely heard the door downstairs open.

"The Chief of police and Dimmock were here‒it wasn't Lestrade or Donovan!" John growled and paced the room, upset and bristling. "Where the hell were you? Where the hell is your sodding brother?"

"Here." Mycroft stepped into the room and stood beside his brother. He cleared his throat and watched John pace.

"This was ridiculous. You put these damn plants in this flat that are fucking illegal and you tell me nothing about them! Why were you keeping them here?!" John said to Mycroft. "Why not anywhere else? No, no we can't tell John a damn thing! Secrets and mysteries, that's what you two are all about!" He jabbed his finger at both of them, nearly spitting he was so upset. "I'm entitled to know what goes on under my roof! I'm glad they took the fucking things! You two deserve it!"

He went quiet, panting and feeling much better.

"Are you quite done?" Mycroft said.

"For now." He grunted.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

He threw his hands in the air. "Fuck knows! They sent someone to arrest her!" John waved his arms towards the street.

"And now she's back."

All three men startled and looked down the steps. Mrs. Hudson was on the landing with a bag of shopping, looking more upset than John had ever seen her. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping her foot, her head titled at a disapproving angle as she surveyed them. John gulped. He knew that tilt and that tap. He rested his hand softly on his bum. He and Sherlock were not going to be sitting comfortably tonight.

 

* * *

 

She blew up the steps like a hurricane and slammed the door shut behind her. John stepped back to give her room and both Holmes brothers edged away. "Explain!" She snarled, glancing at all of them.

Everyone spoke at once. She held up her hand to the din and they went silent. John saw Mycroft bite his lip and Sherlock stare at his feet and he hid a small grin. Mrs. 'Nanny' Hudson.

"Sherlock," she said, turning to the brothers, "explain."

So Sherlock began explaining how he brought the vines into the flat a few days prior and how they were only going to be there until they were ready to bloom‒any moment now, he assured her. Then they would be out of the flat and out of their lives.

"Why was I arrested?" She asked.

"Because they're illegal." John hissed.

They all looked at him. Mrs. Hudson held up a finger to him and he snapped his mouth shut. Sherlock continued, explaining how the plant could produce a hallucinogenic substance under the correct conditions. He explained it just as he had to John.

"So you knew they were illegal and yet you brought them into my building anyway?" She asked Sherlock.

"Well, no, I mean, sort of, but‒it's all Mycroft's fault!"

The older Holmes looked at his little brother aghast and John tried to stifle a snicker.

"You agreed to keep them here." Mycroft told him.

"But it was your idea." Sherlock shot back.

"Enough!" She snapped. Both men went quiet again. "Why on earth did you decide to keep them in my building?" She asked.

No answer.

"I want an explanation, boys." She said in a low tone.

Mycroft glanced at his watch. "I need to‒"

"‒ you are not leaving this flat until I have all the answers I want!" She scolded. Mycroft pursed his lips and went quiet and again John had to stifle a giggle. They were like children. It was so funny.

"They're meant to be a gift." Sherlock said finally. John blinked in surprise. Huh?

"For who?" She asked. She sounded as bewildered as John felt.

"Our father." Mycroft said.

"What?!" John strode forward. "Your father? Why the fuck are you growing hallucinogenic jungle vines for your father?!"

Mrs. Hudson glanced at him, then to the brothers. "Excellent question." She said.

"It…was for his birthday." Sherlock said.

"Quite the botanist," Mycroft added, "and we knew he would appreciate the rarity of these vines."

John stared at them, equal parts dumbfounded, pissed off, and amused. It was insane. It was almost as insane as the Great Cow Gore incident. "Your father…" he muttered.

"We kept them to ensure they would remain a surprise." Sherlock said. "He and mummy aren't going to come to this flat anytime soon, so B made the most sense."

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and thrust a hip out. "No it didn't." She told them.

"At the time it did." Mycroft muttered.

"There are no excuses for this, Mycroft!" She snapped. "You could give him anything else! Orchids, roses‒anything! Something legal? Something that wouldn't get me arrested?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, like he was restraining himself from telling her that she was severely overreacting, and looked down at her over his long nose. "I'll get it removed from your record. There's no need to shout."

She gave him a Look. John knew that Look. It was the same one she gave him and Sherlock before she smacked them. Evidently, Mycroft was also familiar with it. He blinked and his superiority flickered off his face as the reality of the imminent situation that was about to occur on his hindquarters started to sink in.

"Do not patronize me, Mycroft Holmes." She spoke in a quiet, hard voice. "You may be the British government now, but I used to be your nanny. Other people see a scary man with an umbrella and a fleet of black cars but I see the intelligent boy I remember." She stepped closer to him all the while, pointing up at him with her finger. She stopped right in front of him and had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. That didn't make her any less intimidating though. "And that boy is certainly not too big and scary to go right over my knee. None of you are." She clarified.

John's eyes widened at her bravery. Mycroft pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to retort. To walk out and declare this all rubbish. Instead he glanced away and crossed his arms, looking not unlike the moody boy she said he was.

"That's what I thought." She said. She turned to Sherlock, watching the whole conversation with something like glee on his face. As soon as her gaze landed on him the traces of glee vanished and he looked at his feet, clasping his hands behind him.

John was trying his damndest to not burst out laughing. That Sherlock allowed himself to get smacked was already hard to believe. But Mycroft? She had effectively reduced them to boys with simply her tone of voice. As if sensing his amusement, Mrs. Hudson turned the Look to him. He gulped.

"You're hardly an innocent in this, John."

"I understand." He said.

"You put those ridiculous vines in my flat, yes?

"Yes. I'm sorry. There was nowhere else to put them. I, it was short notice."

"How about the skip out back?!" She suggested in a shrill, annoyed tone. John winced. "You could have told me he was up to something silly. Something illegal!" She turned to the brothers and shouted the word at them.

John sighed. He felt terrible about this whole thing, he really did. She had gotten arrested for Pete's sake and he was certain that was never part of the plan. "I didn't realize how far it would escalate. I'm sorry. I had no idea you would end up getting arrested and embarrassed."

She hummed in her throat. "All of you are getting spanked." She declared. "This was just too ridiculous, boys."

Mycroft looked up, bewildered. "I, I have a meeting with the Korean Ambassador‒"

"Then he'll just have to wait, won't he?" She whirled on him. "I bet if I explained your behavior, he would agree that you need a sound spanking, Mycroft!"

Sherlock snickered. Mrs. Hudson looked at him and he stifled his laugh into a cough.

"Like I said," Mycroft said, his ears red, "I'll get it expunged."

"Oh you'd better, Mycroft Holmes. I don't care if you're the King of England himself, if you don't get that ridiculousness off my record you WILL get the spoon everyday for a week!"

The room was silent for a moment and Mrs. Hudson rooted in her shopping bag. She pulled out the brand new oval-headed wooden spoon and Sherlock groaned.

"Who first?" She asked. She slapped the oval into her palm.

"Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft spoke. "This is silly. You cannot spank me!"

"Oh? Says who? You want to call the coppers, tell them I'm smacking you for bad behavior? You want to call your parents, tell them I'm about to swat you?"

Mycroft looked down at her, unimpressed. She stared up at him and John and Sherlock exchanged a glance.

"I'll give you money." He spoke with the air of a desperate last-ditch effort. "For pain and suffering."

"The only pain and suffering that's going to happen will be on your bottom, Mycroft. Are you volunteering to go first?"

He looked away and clenched his fist in annoyance. She didn't move a muscle. It was sort of fascinating to watch them stare at each other. John had never really seen Mycroft intimidated before and prior to this incident, he would have assumed that if he was ever going to see anyone intimidate the older Holmes, it would be some massive thug or a particularly formidable foreign diplomat. Not…Mrs. Hudson.

"I have a meeting." He grumped.

"Then go." She gestured with the spoon to the open door. "But I think you deserve a spanking, Mycroft. This really was a rotten thing that you did."

He took a deep breath and she continued. "I was arrested because of those silly plants and I was utterly humiliated at the shops."

Guilt trip. John nodded. She played dirty. Then again, so did the Holmes boys.

Mycroft stared at her and she stared back, completely uncowed. "Five swats." He spoke through grit teeth. "No more."

"Five?" She laughed. "Sweetie, I was thinking more like thirty."

His eyes widened. Evidently he hadn't forgotten how that spoon felt. "Ten."

"Twenty five." She countered.

"Wait!" Sherlock stepped in. "You never let us decide how many!"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you stay out of this." Her voice was steel and ice and Sherlock shrank back, hiding beside John and hunching his shoulders. John bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a smile. If she ever strung out the full 'John Hamish Watson' he'd probably react the same way.

"Fifteen." Mycroft said.

"Twenty."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, paused, and agreed. She nodded and sat in the center of the sofa. "You know what to do."

Mycroft let out a little hiss of frustration and set his umbrella down, wrenching open his trousers. He glanced at his grinning brother and an alarmed yet fascinated John and Mrs. Hudson caught their eyes. "Face the corner, you two." She gestured with the big spoon to the corner behind the red chair. John and Sherlock stood beside each other, facing the wall. John's arms were crossed and his lips were pursed as he stared dully at the bookshelf. He drummed his fingers on his bicep.

"You're upset." Sherlock said to him.

"What on earth gave you that idea?" He asked in a snippy tone.

"John, it was a mistake. I'm sorry."

"Yes it was. And yes you should be."

"Hey, you two." Mrs. Hudson called to them. "No talking over there or I'll double your swats."

John went quiet and Sherlock looked at his feet. Why on earth had the brothers thought it would be a good idea to keep illegal substances in B? Christ.

_Pop! Pop!_

John closed his eyes. It was such a terrible sound. A sharp, flat swat‒it sounded as bad as it felt. To him anyway. Maybe it was just the knowledge that he would be hearing those pops much more clearly in a few moments. And for what? Mr. Holmes would surely appreciate the rare gift, but this was the stupidest reason to get a spanking. John frowned. He'd had very much an outside role in this particular fiasco. He didn't bring the plants into the flat. He wanted Sherlock to get rid of them. In an unusual turn of events, he was leaning towards Mrs. Hudson's side. It was stupid and illegal and she was the one who'd suffered the most. Getting arrested in public and then held in a cell had to be mortifying. He reasoned thought that he should have told her about the vines, so for that he was guilty. Maybe not as guilty as the brothers, but guilty.

The repeated sounds of smacking popped in the air and John counted the strokes in his head. They had agreed on twenty. Twenty swats with the spoon! Is that what she gave them when she smacked them? Ulgh! It felt like a thousand.

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

The temptation to turn around and glance at the British government thrown over Mrs. Hudson's floral skirt was too strong to ignore. He bit his lip and turned his head, peeking out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft was over her thigh, his posh trousers and pants pushed down and his elbows resting on the sofa cushion. He stared at his hands and John couldn't see his face but he wasn't moving a muscle as Mrs. Hudson laid down smack after smack on his bare bottom, alternating cheeks. John whirled and faced the wall again. He had never ever expected see Mycroft's bare arse. Being a doctor he'd seen more bums than he cared to remember so it really didn't matter, but…bare? He swallowed as dread filled his belly. She'd never smacked them bare before. Was she going to give it to each of them on the bare? Oh God. It sounded awful but Mycroft was keeping perfectly still. No squirming. No rustling. No pained shouts.

"Mycroft," she said. "Generally, surprising your father with a lovely gift is an excellent idea. This, though‒"

_Pop! Pop!_

"‒was terrible!"

"I apologize." He growled.

"Why not something rare and legal for goodness sake? Something that would not get me arrested?!"

"The extra plant properties make the gift extra special. He's going to be eighty."

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

"Clearly," Mycroft said, "more precautions should have been taken."

John was impressed. Mycroft's voice was calm and clear. To listen to him, you'd never know he was getting swatted…although, given his line of work, whatever the hell it was exactly, he probably had training to resist actual, legitimate torture. John used his own memories of boot camp to push through the pain. Who knew what kind of control Mycroft would have? He wondered then, would asking for tips be weird?

More popping sounds bounced through the air and John glanced at Sherlock. He was just standing there, head lowered and hands clasped behind his back. He was probably putting all of this in his palace so he could insult his brother about it later.

The popping noises stopped. There was the rustling sound of clothes and then a zip and John risked another glance over his shoulder. The spoon was on the table and Mrs. Hudson was speaking quietly to Mycroft. He nodded a few times, looking down at his feet. He actually looked…sorry. John blinked a few times and faced the wall again, amazed. Good Lord. Mrs. Hudson was magic.

Fine leather shoes echoing off hardwood sounded in the air before the flat door closed. Mycroft had gone and the three of them were alone. John was glad that the older Holmes wasn't going to witness his bum getting blistered, but that now left him with an incoming spanking staring him in the face.

"Both of you out of the corner." Mrs. Hudson said. Both men turned around and faced her. "John?" She beckoned. "Your go."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always welcome :)


	4. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock take their turns.

They both turned around. John cast a half hearted glare at his flatmate, then lifted his chin and took a breath. He walked to the sofa where Mrs. Hudson was seated again and armed with the ruddy spoon. Sherlock scurried over to his green leather chair and tucked his knees up to his chin. "Why did we face the wall for Mycroft's?" He asked.

"He's not one of us, dear. It's different. Everything down, John."

He opened his jeans and pushed them down, hopeful that he could stay like this. He went to get over her thighs‒

"Ah-ah." She held up the spoon, blocking his descent. "Everything, I said."

"Pants too?" John asked grimly. He glanced at Sherlock. The detective's eyes were wide in horror.

"Yes, John! Pants too! In case you forgot, I was arrested today! Burning a hole in the ceiling is one thing, but you two need to rein yourselves in. Maybe a bare bottomed smacking will finally get through to you both!"

Her voice was firm and commanding but John knew that he could refuse. If he had told her about the vines, he would refuse this time and she would likely understand. He might not even be in line for punishment at all had he told her. He should have, but he didn't, so he felt culpable. He didn't want the spoon, but he never did. It wasn't even the humiliation of being naked either. She had several sons and had been married so it wasn't like she hadn't seen it all before. He refused to look at Sherlock as he shoved his pants down and bent over her lap.

"Good lad." She adjusted his shirt and put her hand on his waist to steady him. John stared at the floor, very aware of his arse out in the breeze. He grabbed a pillow so he'd have something to squeeze and he glanced over at Sherlock. He was surprised to see how sad his friend looked, watching John get into position. John met his eye, looking at him curiously, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

The first whack landed hard on his left cheek. The _pop!_ was loud and painful and it startled a cry out of his mouth. It hurt so much more on the bare! He squeezed the pillow tight. Another _pop!_

"Ow!" He looked over at Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me they were for your father?!" He snapped. "What happened to 'Classified'?!"

"We didn't want him to find out." Sherlock's voice was tight with nerves. "We didn't want to tell anyone."

"Of course!" John snarled. He crossed his ankles as the pain lingered, suppressing his urge to kick. "Keep me in the dark! Makes perfect sense‒because I talk to your father SO MUCH!" The spoon landed again, a smart smack right on the under curve of his bum. He arched his back and curled one hand into a fist.

Another _whack!_ to his right side, then another on his left. He couldn't really effectively yell at Sherlock while getting spanked. He needed to save his breath for hissing in pain. He'd been spanked a few times as a boy, but only once had it memorably been on the bare. He'd lost his temper and made his mum cry and his dad, well, he'd scolded and shouted a bit, then pulled John into his bedroom and tugged down his clothes and given him the most thorough spanking he'd ever received. It had been a surprise coming from his generally mild-mannered father, but John couldn't say he hadn't deserved it.

He took deep breaths and exhaled slowly as she gave him two more solid smacks that burned badly. There was a pause and then she hummed and the doctor felt soft fingers on his hip as she examined the skin.

"Alright, John." She said. "Why did you put the terrarium in my flat?"

"Uh, Sherlock asked me to get the vines out of the flat. So I did."

"Why my flat?"

"That was the only place that was open. I only had a few minutes. C was locked and I didn't have time to run round to the back alley. I thought it would be Greg and Sally at the door, not Gregson and bloody Dimmock. I didn't know there'd be a warrant to search the place."

He felt like he was pleading his case before a judge, with his arse in line for the firing squad. John glanced over his shoulder at her. "I didn't know you'd be arrested, really."

"Sherlock?" She asked. "Anything to add?"

"No." He cleared his throat. "It's not his fault, Mrs. Hudson. This was all Mycroft and me."

She hummed in her throat. "I think we're done here, John. Stand up."

"Wh‒really?"

"Unless you want more?" One brow was raised in a question and rubbed a soothing hand across his shoulders.

"No!" He said. "No more. No more is good."

"Excellent." She rubbed his back and John took a deep breath as the lingering pain danced merrily on his skin. He scooted back and off her lap, struggling to his feet while trying to keep his front covered. He hiked up his pants and jeans and rubbed a hand over the barely tender skin.

"I'll always be fair, John." Her voice softened back to her normal doting tone. "I'll never give you more than you deserve. You just got caught up in all this. And for heaven's sake, if you honestly have a problem with my spanking you both, speak up. I do this to keep you safe. To hopefully encourage you to think before acting."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." John nodded and wandered into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, feeling warmed in a way that had little to do with the heat on his bum. That hadn't been so bad after all. Sherlock sticking up for him had been particularly pleasing.

"Good. _Sherlock_." She snapped his name out. "Your turn."

John did not envy the detective as he got up and went to her side. He drank the cold water and listened as his friend unzipped and clambered over her lap. She wasted absolutely no time and dove right in, lecturing while she spanked.

John went to his flatmate's bedroom and grabbed the soothers from the wardrobe. He dropped them into her shopping bag and then went to the kitchen to pour Sherlock a glass of water. The _pop! pop!_ of the spoon echoed through the flat and John screwed his face up in sympathy for his friend. He wandered back into the room and sank into his chair and glanced at the pair. Sherlock too was bared and over her leg, just as he'd been. His dark trousers were at his knees and his white underpants were around his thighs. His mortified face was buried in his arms on the sofa cushion.

"I cannot believe this!" _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ "This was insane. Those plants were dangerous and illegal!" _Smack, smack, smack, smack._ "You should have told me that you and Mycroft were doing this. There must have been somewhere else to store them!" _Pop! Pop!_

Sherlock squirmed over her knee, grabbing a pillow tight and burying his face in the fabric. "Ow! Ow!" His moan was muffled in the softness. "There wasn't anywhere convenient!"

"Any sunny window would do!" She countered.

_Swat, swat, swat!_

"He couldn't keep them in his office and he refused to keep them at his house! They're illegal!"

"So you keep them here?!" _Whack!_

John felt bad for him, of course, but Sherlock and Mycroft had really brought this on themselves. Keeping the vines here clearly wasn't the best choice, but neither man had considered that. Maybe Sherlock thought it would be fine given the other items of grey legality he kept in the flat. John was fairly sure that storing human remains in a household toaster wasn't permitted by the law, right? Sherlock probably had illegal narcotics‒if not the items required to create them‒somewhere in the flat. Maybe Mycroft even suspected the grey legality of the plants would be an issue but simply left it alone for convenience's sake.

John felt a tiny bit guilty that he had received fewer smacks, even though he understood and completely agreed with why she had been lighter on him. He drank more water and glanced up when Sherlock started yelping after each smack. The sofa creaked and his clothes tangled around his knees as he tossed his hips.

"Hold still." She commanded.

"It hurts." He growled.

"As it should!"

John mentally went through the contents of his medical bag. He had some aloe cream in there. He planned to use some on himself and decided that sharing would be highly appreciated.

"Ow! Ow!" Sherlock punched the sofa cushion and kicked his feet, growling into the pillow some more.

The popping noises sped up as she hit him faster and Sherlock let out a long groan into the clutched throw pillow, curling his toes and bending his knees as he endured the onslaught.

She stopped, mildly out of breath herself, and glanced over his bum. Sherlock pushed the pillow aside and panted, scowling as her fingers touched his tender skin.

"That should do it." She said. John glanced at his bum. The skin was pretty red and splotchy. The aloe would certainly not be amiss.

The soft sounds of murmuring and soothing filled the air as she leaned down and spoke quietly to him. Sherlock reached up to wipe his face, nodding at her words before he got to his feet and fixed his clothes. She stood and kissed him on the forehead. John handed him the water.

"Thanks." Sherlock muttered. He took it and drank it down. Mrs. Hudson tossed the spoon back in her shopping bags, muttering something about skin and hygiene and how she needed a new one now.

"I have a proposal for the rules." Sherlock grimaced. "No wooden spoons allowed in 221. John," he turned to his friend, his eyes hopeful despite being rimmed red, "you agree with me, yes?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed before he could answer. "I think not, dear." She rested her hand on Sherlock's cheek and gave him a warm smile. He gripped her forearm fondly and they broke apart.

"I'll be making a blueberry crumble tonight," she said, "if either of you are interested."

John's mouth watered. Her crumbles were amazing and she knew it.

"That sounds delightful, Mrs. H." John smiled at her and hoisted up her bag so she wouldn't have to bend.

"Oh, bless you." She took it and then to his surprise, she gave him a peck on the cheek in thanks. "It should be ready in an hour, loves. Try not to burn the place down before then." She breezed out the door and down the steps.

"Ow." Sherlock muttered. He lay down on his belly on the sofa. "John, it hurts!" He whined.

"Yeah, me too."

"Oh she barely gave you any! You can't complain."

"It still hurt!" John countered. He went to his bag. The tube was full. Excellent. He headed into the loo, not bothering with the door. Sherlock was on the sofa and unlikely to get up in the twenty seconds it would take to apply the cream. Even then, modesty wasn't a concept Sherlock took into account very often and really, both of them just had their trousers down in the sitting room. He lowered his jeans and glanced himself over in the mirror. Matching pink splotches decorated both cheeks and he smoothed some cream into the skin. It really didn't even hurt anymore. He finished up and replaced his clothes and went back to the sitting room. He tossed the tube at the sofa. It bounced off the backrest and landed on Sherlock's shoulder.

"What's that?" He said. His face was halfway into the cushion.

"Goop to make you feel better."

Sherlock grunted. He groped at his shoulder and grabbed the tube, popping it open and squeezing some onto his fingers. He shoved his hand down the back of his suit trousers, hissing as the pressure of his fingers agitated the skin. He capped the tube and tossed it on the table.

"Why the hell did you keep them here?" John asked. "Why not at Mycroft's office?"

"Because, according to him, it would 'affect my image immeasurably'" Sherlock put on a mocking uber-posh Mycroft voice. "And before you ask, his office at the Diogenes is like a tomb‒you've been in there. The vines need light to grow."

John shook his head. "This is one of the most ridiculous things we've gotten smacked for."

"Mm. I s'pose orchids will have to do for his birthday..." Sherlock muttered into the cushion.

John giggled. Sherlock smiled into the sofa. "What?" He asked.

"Nothing." John got up and walked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. "We got spanked for growing illegal Amazonian vines. Of course." He made a sort of high pitched suppressed laughing sound in his throat. "Never thought your brother would agree to it." He turned the machine on and it gurbled. He strolled back into the sitting room.

Sherlock laughed, his deep voice resonating. "Mycroft has a sentimental spot for Mrs. Hudson, even though he'd cut off his own foot before admitting that."

John was again reminded of his thought that Mycroft might have training to withstand torture, and he wondered again if it would be weird to ask for tips. It probably would be.

"Only Mycroft?" John opened his laptop and sat down.

A huff was all the response he received, and he smiled as the vague scent of cooking blueberries and cinnamon streusel filled the flat.

 

**the end**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed part 9 :)

**Author's Note:**

> tbc...


End file.
